


Hatred Lies in the Abyss

by uboat53



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Big Bang Challenge, Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, In the Fade, Revenge, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uboat53/pseuds/uboat53
Summary: An inquisitor is not born, they are made, but not by their own hand.  Actually, exactly by their own hand, though not by their own choice.  Inquisitor Trevelyan wants power, the power to protect and avenge himself, more than anything, but resents that it did not come because he deserved it.  As the Champion of Kirkwall leads him into a twisted plot involving the Grey Wardens, he begins to work his machinations.He shook his hand open and flung it down it his side, out of his sight.  He’d finally begun to achieve what he’d wanted all of his life and it was entirely an accident.  He hated it even as he coveted it.  He would show everyone that he was worthy of this.  It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t Andraste, and it wasn’t the damned Maker.  He himself was worthy of power, and one day the world would know and rue that fact.





	Hatred Lies in the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a piece I wrote in 2016 for a Dragon Age Big Bang. The only requirement was 10,000 words and is what a came up with out of that, enjoy.

            Markham was the last place he wanted to be at the moment.  He had once thought this city would be a place to escape to, a place of refuge from the torment of Ostwick, but that idea was long since dead.  Right now he would rather just be anywhere but here.

            The nobles and rich merchants from all around the Free Marches sent their children here to be educated; those that did not send them to Val Royeaux, that is.  The streets near the school were always full of youngsters in fine clothes laughing and running around in groups.  Trevelyan’s brothers and sisters were out there as well, he could see his youngest sister playing a clapping game with some of her friends down the street.

            He meanwhile, was huddled in the corner of a shallow alley, nursing his bruises.

            His own fine clothes were soiled with mud and dust now, ripped and torn in a few places where he had hit the pavement particularly hard.  His ribs ached and he was sure that they would be black and blue by the next morning.  There was a cut on his cheek that was only just now starting to clot and his face was streaked with blood from it.

            It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Yarden of Tantervale was a coward.  Trevelyan had called him out in class a few days earlier.  The boy was stupid, he had been stupid since he had started at the school, arriving a year later than everyone else.  Rumor said he’d been expelled from the academy at Val Royeaux, but no one knew for what.  Trevelyan had taken up his challenge in class and beaten him soundly in debate.  His face had turned so red that Trevelyan had thought that he would turn into a tomato.

            That was then.  Yarden had nursed that injury for a time and then issued him a challenge, he and a friend could come to The Tunning Mare’s Tavern to settle things.  He didn’t many close friends, but Brennath had volunteered to come with him.  It should have been a relatively simple thing, a quick fight with witnesses to settle things and then go home.

            He’d done these kinds of things before, humiliating his rivals in class and then holding his own in a fight of honor.  There were some who claimed to have beaten them, but no one came out of the fight without enough bruises to put the cap on their intellectual trouncing.

Yarden had engineered the whole thing, even Brennath was a part of his plan.  The moment he entered the back room of the tavern, nearly the entire class had jumped him, three or four of them holding him down or throwing him around while the rest of them took turns punching and kicking him.  This went on until he managed to twist his way out of their grip and flee the tavern.  They chased him down the street even then and he had been some time in losing them.

            He felt tears welling up and he clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists to stop them.  One day they would pay; all of them would pay.  His siblings who had tormented him at home, his classmates here in Markham, his distant parents, everyone.  One day he would have the power to make them all pay.

            His hand went down to his belt, in all the commotion of the fight, he hadn’t lost his coinpurse.  He pulled it out now and emptied the contents into his hand, two Ostwick gold sovereigns, three Markham silvers, and a handful of copper.  Enough for passage somewhere else and a set of good daggers.  He may only be thirteen, but he knew how to handle a blade.  He could make his way somewhere abroad.

            First things first, he needed to get out of the city.

 

* * *

 

            Inquisitor Trevelyan climbed the stairs up the battlements with a slight smirk.  He had just passed Cassandra and he was pretty sure who he was on his way to meet.  She had no idea.

            The air was brisk and cool up on the battlements, and the wind never seemed to die down up here.  He wondered briefly why that was, but his thoughts quickly returned to the moment when he turned the corner to see Varric waiting for him on the platform behind the northwest tower.

            “Inquisitor,” Varric said as he rounded the corner, “I’m glad you’re here.  Here’s the gentleman I wanted you to meet.”

            There was another person up on the platform with them, a human flowing robes and a giant staff strapped to his back; how people managed to miss the obvious mages hidden among them never ceased to amaze Trevelyan.

            The man turned around to show a proud face, lined with the worries that care brings.  He had a stern countenance that was softened by a sort of kindly look about the brow.  Trevelyan instantly became wary, people like that never ceased to annoy him.

            “Inquisitor Trevelyan, may I introduce Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall,” said Varric.

            “A pleasure to meet you,” Hawke said, “I hear you have a problem that I can provide some assistance with.”

            Trevelyan reached out and shook his hand.  “Which problem would that be?” he asked, “The red lyrium, the rifts into the fade, or the giant talking darkspawn that’s trying to rip a magical thing out of my hand?”

            “The last one, I suppose,” Hawke said, meeting his gaze earnestly, “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help with the other two.”

            “Well, at least you’re up for one of them,” Trevelyan said, “I’m glad somebody knows what they’re doing for once.”

            “You may want to wait until you’ve heard the whole story,” Varric said cautiously, “I wouldn’t go that far just yet.”

            Hawke walked over the parapet and leaned on it wearily, Trevelyan walked over and joined him.  He always enjoyed looking out over his castle.  From here one could see just about everything.

            “I encountered Corypheus nearly four years ago,” Hawke said, still staring out over the courtyard, “He had been locked in a crypt in the depths of the Vinmark Mountains by the Grey Wardens over two thousand years ago near the start of the blights.”

            “So you know who let him out,” Trevelyan said.

            “I do,” Hawke said, his voice suddenly colored with a touch of anger, “It was me, I unlocked the barriers around that prison.”

            “Now, now.  Don’t be so self-sacrificing,” Varric interjected, “We were all there, remember?”

            “It was my blood that opened it,” Hawke insisted, “My blood that broke the barriers my father had erected.”

            “You let him loose?” Trevelyan practically gaped in astonishment, “I should have you thrown into the dungeons!”

            “Let me finish,” Hawke said, holding his hand up calmly to stay him.  Did Hawke think he wasn’t serious?  “I released the seals on his prison, but then I killed him.  He was dead as dead can be when I left.”

            “Clearly you didn’t do a very good job of it,” Trevelyan retorted, rubbing his shoulder, “The bastard nearly ripped my arm off less than a month ago.”

            “We saw the body and everything,” Varric said, putting his hand on Trevelyan’s arm, “If he survived that, I want to know how more than anybody.”

            Trevelyan took a deep breath to calm himself.  Varric was right, getting angry wasn’t going to help here.  Still, he did want to wipe that smug idealistic expression off of Hawke’s face.  Sometime.

            “I have a friend in the Wardens,” Hawke continued, “He’s gone into hiding in a cave north of Crestwood.  You should come there and here what he has to say.”

            “And what exactly does he have to say?” Trevelyan asked.

            “It’s better if you hear it from him yourself,” Hawke said, shaking his head, “and I should be leaving as well, I have some things to see to.  I’ll meet you when you come to Crestwood.”

            “Fine,” said Trevelyan, gritting his teeth.  Why could no one just tell him what he needed to know, “I’ll gather a party and head over there.  Don’t delay too long getting there.  Varric, you’re coming along.”

            “Of course Inquisitor,” said Varric, “I’ll be right down.  I just want to say goodbye to Hawke first.”

            “Good to meet you Inquisitor,” said Hawke.  Trevelyan grumbled a response that seemed to satisfy, and then he was off down the stairs again.

            At the bottom of the stairs Cassandra was bashing the poor practice dummies like always.  She stopped when she saw him and smiled as he headed past her to the tavern.

            He nodded politely to her and smiled back.  He broke into a wide grin when he had passed her.  Hawke may have gotten slightly on his nerves, but it was worth having met him to see the fit Cassandra was going to have later.

 

* * *

 

            Three days later Trevelyan found himself trudging along a run-down road on the way to Crestwood.  After his meeting with Hawke, Harding had been sent out that day, and had sent a note back by raven indicating some kind of trouble.  After gathering together their supplies, he, Varric, Solas, and Blackwall had started on their way the next morning.

            The rain had started an hour ago, although Trevelyan was convinced it was more a matter of space than time; Crestwood must really just be that much of a shithole.  He’d seen nothing since to change his opinion of the matter, just dreary crags and bare grass everywhere along this ruined stretch of road that was almost as much mud as stone.

            “There’s a torch up ahead,” Varric said suddenly, and they all loosened their weapons and made ready.  They hadn’t run into any bandits on the road here, but Harding hadn’t been particularly clear on what kind of trouble she’d run into exactly.

            They needn’t have bothered, the torchbearer turned out to be one of Harding’s underlings, and soon enough they were in the forward camp.

            “Report!” Trevelyan barked as he strode up to the tents.

            “Your worship,” Harding said, scrambling to her feet.  Nothing ever seemed to shake the woman; that was useful in a subordinate, but Trevelyan was going to make her jump one of these days.  “We’ve gone as far as we can, but we needed to wait for reinforcements before pushing through to the town.”

            Trevelyand considered that for a moment.  While he thought, he glanced around the camp.  Nearly a dozen scouts in good order.  The tents were firmly set and well supported; they seemed waterproof too.  If he had to stay the night here, at least he would have someplace dry to sleep.  A slow smile crept across his face as he watched the scouts go about their duties; he had enough power to send such a force all this way and establish him without difficulty.  From power well managed would grow more power; it was only a matter of time.

            “Your message mentioned some kind of trouble,” Trevelyan said, “Can you be specific about it.”

            “Of course, your worship,” Harding said in her usual calm voice, “We’ve run into groups of undead rising out of the lake.”

            “Undead!” Trevelyan exclaimed.  He glanced over the small stone wall that protected the camp at the lake beyond.  He hadn’t noticed at first, but now he could see a glowing swirl of green shimmering somewhere out in the waters.  He sighed the moment he caught sight of it.  “It’s a damned rift, isn’t it.”

            “Seems like it,” said Harding, “They don’t seem too interested in us, though.  We’ve only had a few attack us, most of them just take the main road to the village.”

            “So we’ll need to fight our way through them to get there,” Trevelyan grimaced, “Anything else?  Like how I’m supposed to get out to that rift to close it?”

            “No idea,” said Harding, “Maybe the villagers can lend you a boat.  We’ll keep searching and I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

            Trevelyan heaved a weary sigh and dismissed Harding.  He was just here for Hawke’s damned Warden, he hated getting dragged into new things everywhere he went.  He led his company off a short ways to confer.

            “A rift in the middle of a lake is unusual,” said Solas as soon as they were out of earshot of the scouts, “Most of them seem to form in open air.”

            “Any thoughts on where the bodies are coming from?” asked Varric, “They said undead were coming out of the lake, not demons.”

            “A curiosity to be sure,” Solas replied, “Perhaps the villagers will have an answer.”

            “And there’s no way of reaching them without hacking out way through that mess?” Varric replied, “Maker why do we even go places?”

            “It’ll help the villagers if we can clear a path,” Blackwall said in his usual annoying idealistic way, “It may even allow them to evacuate their wounded.”

            “Either way there’s no going around it,” Trevelyan cut them off, “The cave with Hawke’s Warden friend is on the other side.”

            “Agreed,” said Solas, “It seems the village is the answer no matter which way we look at this puzzle.”

 

* * *

 

            Trevelyan examined the edge of one of his daggers in the keep.  The last two days had seen practically non-stop fighting, and it was starting to tell.  He put the edge to the grindstone and started it spinning.

            The rain had stopped while they were in the cave.  He wasn’t sure, but it might have happened at the same moment he had closed the fade rift.  He shook his head, a rift that could control the weather?  That was new.

            He resisted looking at the mark on his hand.  It had only been a few weeks, but he was starting to forget what life had been like before.  The mark had given him wealth and power beyond anything he’d dreamed, and yet sometimes it seemed like he was as far from his goals as ever.

            Skyhold was an impressive castle, a symbol of how far he and his Inquisition had come, but more important to him was his reach.  He had seen it here, he’d sent a few dozen soldiers down from the mountain to this town by the lake.  He had taken a fortified keep and established it as a base from which to control the country.  He had done all of this within two days of arriving.  So why didn’t he feel satisfied?

            Caer Bronach was an impressive keep, but what did it control?  A piddling village between an empty coast and the backwoods section of a backwoods empire of dog-lords.  He had power and authority beyond anything he’d experienced in his life, and he spent it taking near empty castles a hundred miles from nowhere.

            He took his dagger from the wheel and stood to examine the edge again.  The fore edge was getting better, but it would still take a few more minutes with a hand stone to bring back the fine edge he was used to.

            His eyes turned to his right hand.  Even with the back turned to him, he could see the glow of the mark pulsing around the sides.  Slowly he turned his hand over and looked directly at the mark.

            All it was to him was a streak; glowing with a dark green on the outer edges fading to a bright white at the center.  It was otherworldly, but he saw no more in it than he saw in the glowing green rifts that floated in the air.  He certainly couldn’t see the fade.  He could feel it, though, when he reached into the rifts.

            He clenched his hand into a fist, the mark glowing through his closed fingers.  He’d never felt the fade before, it had always just been something that he zoned out when it was discussed; something without real impact on his life.  Now he could feel when it was…  near?  No, that wasn’t the right word.  He’d discussed it a bit with Solas and the fade wasn’t any nearer to any place than it was at any other place, the barrier was just thinner.  Still, ‘near’ was a good description for how it felt, and he could reach into the rifts and push it away.  This power that something had thrust upon him was the cause of everything that had happened since.

            He shook his hand open and flung it down it his side, out of his sight.  He’d finally begun to achieve what he’d wanted all of his life and it was entirely an accident.  He hated it even as he coveted it.  He would show everyone that he was worthy of this.  It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t Andraste, and it wasn’t the damned Maker.  He himself was worthy of power, and one day the world would know and rue that fact.

            With renewed focus, he sat back down and pressed the aft edge of the blade against the wheel.  One day they would all know.

 

* * *

 

            Hawke was waiting for them on the far side of Crestwood.  Trevelyan grimaced, where had the man been when he might have been useful.  They had already fought their way through bandits and demons and the undead, and now the man showed up.

            “Nice to find you here,” he said sarcastically.

            “I was beginning to be concerned,” Hawke said, “I had heard there were troubles in Crestwood.”

            “All taken care of,” said Varric before Trevelyan could spit out his more biting reply, “We’re all set to meet this Warden friend of yours.”

            “He’s in a cave just up the hill,” said Hawke, “I’ll follow your lead.”

            _‘I’ll follow your lead.’_   Damn right he would, why take responsibility when the good old Inquisitor could just do everything for you?

            “Stay back with Solas,” Trevelyan said, “How are you with barriers?”

            “Your friend here would probably be a better choice,” said Hawke, glancing at Solas, “I’ve always been better at the use of fire magics.”

            “Then make sure not to hit me,” grumbled Trevelyan, starting down the road, “I’ve been burned enough in my life.”

            Just up the hill.  Everything had been just up the hill since they got here.  The village was just up the hill from where they’d met scout Harding and that elven woman.  The keep had been just up the hill from the village.  The dam was just down the hill from the keep.  Why was everything here just over or under a hill?

            He took a deep breath.  At least it had finally stopped raining.  The ground was still a bit moist, but the puddles had mostly dried up.  Besides, something had happened to the Wardens.  If he could be the one to figure it out, it could be one more addition to his army.

            Just up the rise of yet another hill, they found the entrance to the cave.  “This is it,” said Hawke, “I left him here before I went to see you at Skyhold.”

            “And you’re sure he’s still in it?” Trevelyan asked, eyeing the entryway suspiciously.  There was some type of symbol painted on the wooden door that barred the way into the cave.  A painted symbol splattered with blood.

            “It looks the same as when I left,” Hawke said, seeming unconcerned, “This cave was used by a band of smugglers.  They were…  uncooperative when my friend tried to take residence here.”

            Trevelyan couldn’t stop himself from breaking into a broad grin.  This Warden was already starting to sound like a fine fellow.

            He pushed open the door slowly.  There was a soft creaking sound, but the cave was empty before them.

            “How deep does this go?” Blackwall asked.  Idealist though he was, he could be very usefully practical.

            “Not far,” said Hawke, “Probably less than fifty paces.”

            Trevelyan looked into the darkness ahead, then turned back to Hawke.  “After you.”

            Hawke hesitated a moment, glancing back and forth between him and Varric, then stepped boldly into the cave.  Trevelyan followed, keeping his eyes moving and trying to peer into the dark crevices.  Varric’s faith aside, Trevelyan didn’t trust Hawke not to unwittingly lead them into a trap.

            True enough to his word, though, they had barely gone thirty paces when the tunnel turned a corner and opened up into a small chamber lit by several torches.  Trevelyan had barely a moment to look around before he heard a sword leave its scabbard and he caught a glint of steel moving by his neck.

            He reacted without thinking, blades spinning from his back toward his attacker.  Suddenly, he couldn’t move.  A strangled scream died in his throat, it _was_ a trap!  Damn that Hawke and his ‘Warden friend’!  How could he have been so stupid as to trust them on just Varric’s word!

            “Hold!” Hawke’s voice echoed through the cavern, “It’s just us Alistair.”

            Trevelyan felt the invisible shackles release and looked around in confusion.  The Warden in front of him still held out the sword, but he had relaxed a little and was merely eyeing them warily instead of threateningly.

            Trevelyan rounded on Hawke, the man had held him helpless as another man had put a sword to his throat!  He wanted to scream, to shout, to plunge his dagger into the man’s heart, but no words came and he found himself as frozen as before.

            “This is the Inquisitor?” the Warden, Alistair, asked, “I’ve been through enough in the last few weeks since the Calling started you’ll understand if I’m a bit cautious.”

            Trevelyan tore his gaze from Hawke and sized up the Warden.  His eyes marked the details of Alistair’s stance and equipment, but his heart pounded in his chest.  One day, when the chance presented itself, Hawke would pay.

            “This is the Inquisitor,” Hawke said.

            “You can put the damned sword down now,” Trevelyan said hoarsely, sheathing his own blades.

            Warily, Alistair lowered his sword and slid it back into the scabbard.

            “Inquisitory Trevelyan,” Hawke began, “This is Alistair, Grey Warden and companion to the Hero of Ferelden.”

            “May he rest at the Maker’s side,” Alistair said solemnly, “I would almost say ‘late’ of the Grey Wardens, I’ve been attacked by enough of them lately that I don’t think I still qualify.  If only the blood thing would go away I could have a nice quiet life on a farm somewhere.”

            “I don’t think that’s in the cards,” Trevelyan said, taking in the Warden’s appearance now.  He was of average height with average features, but there was something about him, a weariness mixed with sadness that marked his stance and his eyes.  “I’ve heard you don’t just get to stop being a Grey Warden.”

            “True enough,” said Alistair, “although being a Grey Warden these days seems to mean having taken leave of your senses.”

            “The Calling,” Blackwall said.

            “It’s something more than that,” Alistair said, gesturing agitatedly, “The Calling happens to all of us eventually, but not all at once.  Even the newest recruits are hearing it and it’s got the whole order scared out of their minds.”

            “I had thought the Wardens trained to accept death,” said Solas.

            “It’s not just death,” Alistair was getting more agitated as he went, and Trevelyan followed him nervously with his eyes, “If all the Wardens are gone, what happens the next time there’s a Blight?  We’re the only ones who can kill Archdemons.”

            Trevelyan perked up at that, that was news to him.  “So Corypheus’ pet Archdemon…” he pondered aloud.

            “Pet Archdemon?” Alistair exclaimed, “Maker what are you into?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Trevelyan said firmly, “It’s clear that we need the Wardens’ help if we’re to deal with Corypheus.  You say they’ve gone insane, so we’ve got to get them back.”

            “It’s not that simple,” Alistair protested, “You can’t just march into Adamant Fortress like it’s a simple village.”

            Trevelyan fixed the man with an intense gaze, almost without realizing he was doing it.

            “Watch me.”

 

* * *

 

            Trevelyan grinned as he watched.  Huge stones from Cullen’s trebuchets crashed with devastating accuracy into clusters of Warden soldiers assembled on the parapets, Inquisition soldiers raised ladders against the walls, establishing wide footholds along their length, and a huge ram, with a head in the shape of his own fist with a fiery cauldron burning within to imitate the mark advanced relentlessly on the gates.

            Wardens above the gates were desperately flinging rocks, arrows, and anything else they could find down at his soldiers, but still the ram advanced like an unstoppable force.  Fires had begun to burn in various sections of Adamant Fortress and the slow billowing of smoke contrasted with the frantic movements of soldiers on and below the walls.

            “This is not quite how I imagined returning to Adamant,” Alistair said behind him.  He did not turn to face him, but kept his eyes on the scene before them.

            “You saw what Erimond did to them,” Trevelyan said calmly, “What we do here is a mercy.”

            “I don’t disagree,” Alistair said reluctantly, “I just wish that it hadn’t come to this.”

            “The Wardens brought this upon themselves,” Hawke said sternly.  Was it Trevelyan’s imagination or had he become more likeable since they had found out about the demon summoning?  “They took Erimond’s offer of assistance without a second thought, sacrificing their own to turn themselves into slaves.”

            “They must have sacrificed a great many,” Solas put in, “I see many demons along the wall.”

            “Why do people always resort to blood magic,” Varric muttered, “It never goes well.”

            “Inquisitor,” Cullen said as he approached, “The ram has almost reached the gate.  If you wanted to speak to the men before we move in, now would be the time.”

            Trevelyan nodded slowly, finally taking his eyes off the fortress ahead.  Such a powerful façade, reduced to rubble before his very eyes.

            They walked down from the hill upon which the command center had been set up.  Hawke and Alistair were with him, as were Solas, Varric, and the Iron Bull.  The rest of his companions had been sent in two groups with Cassandra and Blackwall to assist in taking and holding towers along the walls.

            At the bottom of the hill, on the road that led from the world outside to the gates of Adamant Fortress, he addressed a battalion of some of his best troops; those handpicked by Cullen to storm the gates.

            “Soldiers of the Inquisition,” he began, as he could hear the thudding of the ram against the gate beginning in the background, “we stand before the gates of the unassailable fortress, Adamant.  This place has never been taken before, though armies have starved themselves in this remote place trying.  But we do not come here as they did, seeking to quarrel with the Wardens over temporal matters, but to rectify the sin they have committed against the Maker.”

            He threw up his hand now, holding the mark up to the assembled soldiers.  “We have not chosen this destiny, but have had it thrust upon us.  Just as this mark has been thrust upon me by Andraste, so has this destiny been thrust upon us by the Maker’s plan.  I have not faltered from my task.  As Herald I have stood against the forces that have threatened not this realm or that, but the entire world.  I will not waver as long as the Maker calls me to this task.

            “Know that the Grey Wardens have fallen to Corypheus!  Know that they have been bound to his will not by his doing, but they their own hands; by their own weakness!  It is for this sin that we have come here!  It is for this sin that we will reduce them!”

            Trevelyan closed his hand into a fist as finished and the soldiers cheered.  He closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him.  He had power.  His words alone had power.  Soon enough, this fortress would be his with all it represented.  Behind him he heard the gate splinter under the assault of the ram.

            “For the Inquisition!” Cullen called, drawing his sword, “For your lives!  For the Herald!”

            Trevelyan drew his daggers and ran toward the shattered gates.  Behind him, he heard the roar of a hundred voices and the thunder of a hundred footsteps.  These Wardens thought to oppose him.  He would throw them down.

 

* * *

 

            Trevelyan leaned gratefully on a soft sack of something and accepted a flask of water from one of his soldiers.  Varric did the same, breathing heavily, and so did Iron Bull.  Only Solas looked fresh and ready to continue, although a slight lack of focus in his eyes gave his fatigue away.  Bloody mages.

            The walls of Adamant shook with the impact of Cullen’s trebuchets and the clamor and cries of battle on other sections of wall could be heard even through the thick walls of the room they were in.

            “How much more?” Trevelyan asked.

            “Sister Nightingale’s schematics show one more double gate before we reach the main courtyard your worship,” the scout replied.

            “Just one more?” asked Varric sarcastically, “I was beginning to think there wouldn’t be a courtyard, that they’d just thrown together a castle out of walls and gates and called it good.”

            “That still might be the case,” said Iron Bull, gulping down an entire flask and reaching for a second, “You haven’t seen this ‘courtyard’ just yet.”

            “It must be of reasonable size,” said Solas, seating himself with them, “I can feel an opening in the veil too large to be contained in a hallway or on a rampart.  Can you not feel it as well?”

            Trevelyan opened and closed his marked hand.  He could feel it.  Something big was happening and it wasn’t very far away.

            “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “Whether it’s a courtyard or a hallway, it’s still just one more gate away.”

            He stood, muscles protesting as he did so and a few cuts he hadn’t noticed before adding their complaints as well.  He instantly regretted it.  These Wardens had better be worth it.  How long had they been fighting here?

            “Is everyone ready?”

            An affirmative chorus answered him and he stepped out to the next section of wall with a deep breath.

 

* * *

 

            Trevelyan kicked open yet another gate with an annoyed grunt.  This was the third one since they’d left the small shelter on the wall, the damned liars.

            This time, though, it was actually the last one.  He and his companions were faced with a wide courtyard packed with Grey Wardens.  At the far end of the courtyard was a raised platform accessible by two staircases that ran along either side to its rear.

            The middle of the courtyard had been set up as some kind of ritual; mages clustered around it, connected to the middle with effervescent green tendrils.  The middle of the ritual circle was a rift, and opening in the veil into the fade.

            He reached out through the mark and felt it, it was different than the rifts he’d encountered before; even the breach hadn’t been as fully realized as this.  It wasn’t a small thinness allowed demons to flow like liquid from the fade or a tiny pinhole that they could squeeze through; the damned Wardens had created a literal tear big enough for grown men to step through.

            “Wardens!” a thin Warden mage with no hair was saying from atop the raised platform, “We are betrayed by the very world we sought to protect!”

            “We have no time,” Erimond insisted.  Of course he would be here, “The Inquisition is inside the walls.”

            “The Wardens are giving their lives,” the Warden responded, “That may not mean anything in Tevinter, but it is a sacred duty among us.”

            As Trevelyan watched, the Warden turned and slit the throat of another Warden.  Blood spilled out onto the platform and began to drip down the edges.

            The blood poured into the rift.  He couldn’t feel the blood, or the magic, but he felt the fade grow before him.  Dimly, in the green mist of the rift, he could see a huge demon, nearly the size of the whole courtyard lurking behind it.

            He felt a moment of desire.  The mark gave him power over the rifts, but not the demons themselves.  Were that he was a mage who could bind such a demon to his will with his own blood.

            The Wardens in the clearing began to notice them, turning and drawing their weapons, an Trevelyan snapped back to reality.  He readied his weapons and rushed into the clearing, the others close on his heels.

 

* * *

 

            Trevelyan dashed up the stairs toward the platform, Clarel had chased Erimond in that direction and he had to catch them.

            A shockwave blast hit him from the side and pitched him hard against the side of the staircase.  The next thing he knew he was lying on his back, head facing down the staircase with a dull pain in his ribs.  From where he was, he could see the massive rift the Wardens had created upside-down.  Wardens and demons fought, moving frantically on the ceiling, and he could see the faint movement of the huge demon through the hole in the air.  He stretched out his hand toward it, the mark might also allow him to control that thing, if only he could feel how.

            “Are you all right Inquisitor?” Solas asked him, his voice sounding as if it was coming from a distance.

            “Help me up,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ll be fine.”

            “That’s our boss,” Iron Bull said approvingly, picking him up by the back of his collar hauling him to his feet with one hand.

            “You’re sure you’re all right?” Varric asked, “You hit the ground pretty hard.”

            “I’m fine,” Trevelyan growled, “Where’s the Warden and Hawke?”

            “They went ahead to clear a path,” said Solas, “We were to catch up to them when…”

            “Then let’s go,” Trevelyan pushed their aiding hands off of him and stalked his way up the staircase, still holding his ribs.

            Hawke and the Warden hadn’t gotten far, they met them at the first rampart they came upon.  The demons were disorganized, no longer under any kind of command, and they attacked without discipline or coordination.  They were powerful, but working together, the companions defeated them without too much difficulty.

            A scream gave them only a moment’s notice, as another shock wave crashed into the parapet next to them, sending shards of stone raining down on them.  Trevelyan fell to the ground with the force of it, the pain in his ribs rushing back to life.  The rushing roar of the dragon’s wings was only a second away as the beast flew past.  Iron Bull shouted something after it in Qunari, but Trevelyan pushed on.  There was a covered rampart ahead and he wanted to be out of the dragon’s sight for a moment of two.

            He sprinted down the ramparts, ignoring the demons and the Wardens who fought them.  He no longer knew if his companions were following him, if they were smart, they’d catch up.  His ribs ached with the pounding of each step, but he dared not stop out in the open.  Every few seconds, a new shock in the air let him know that the dragon was still watching him.  He kept his course as random as he could, darting back and forth to confuse it as best he could.  The blasts still connected far too close to him for comfort.

            Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the covered section.  He didn’t stop until he was well within it, he counted out three columns before he let himself stop, falling his knees and clutching his ribs in pain.  Dimly, he could hear Varric talking to him and his hand on his shoulder, at least one of them had managed to keep up.

            A loud rumble was all the warning they had, then the massive head of the dragon plunged its way through a gap between the pillars supporting the roof.  The damned thing had latched itself onto the side of the walls of the keep!

            A small throwing knife flew from Trevelyan’s hands purely by instinct as he shoved Varric to his right and rolled left.  The knife was lost in an instant as the dragon breathed some kind of electric fire down the corridor; Trevelyan barely made it behind one of the other pillars in time.  The heat of it pounded onto him and he turned his head away.

            Then, just as suddenly as it began, the powerful heat was gone and he could hear the sound of the dragon’s wings beating fading away in the distance.  Trevelyan let out his breath and collapsed where he sat, breathing heavily.  Solas and Hawke came around the corner, the rest of the party following, and Varric came out from where he had taken refuge on the other side of the corridor.

            “Inquisitor, please allow a moment for some healing,” Solas said.

            “You’re not a healer, Solas,” Trevelyan grunted at him.

            “No, but I am,” Hawke said, “I learned a great deal from Anders before…”

            “No healing,” Trevelyan growled.  He would have his revenge on Hawke for his actions in the cave at Crestwood, under no circumstances would he put himself under any kind of obligation to the man.

            “At least have a poultice,” Iron Bull said, “One of the Chargers makes them, it’ll put you back on your feet in no time.”

            Reluctantly he accepted the poultice from Iron Bull.  He looked at the small bottle curiously for a moment and Iron Bull mimed a drinking motion.  Following the instruction, he downed it in one go and nearly threw it back up again.

            It was possibly the most disgusting thing he’d ever tasted, and that taste seemed to extend all the way to his stomach.  He hadn’t even known it was possible to taste something that far down.  He fell to his knees and worked for a moment to retain control over his throat which was desperately trying to empty the entire contents of his stomach on the ground.  Still, he had to admit that it did wonders for his ribs.

            “Yeah, it does that,” Iron Bull said as Trevelyan stood back up, “You feel better though, don’t you?”

            “Come on,” said Trevelyan, “We’ve got to catch up to Clarel and Erimond.  I want to be there when all this goes down.”

            The rest of the corridor was clear and they spread out as they headed to the end of it.  Varric ended up next to Trevelyan.

            “You saved my life when the dragon showed up,” Varric said softly.  It was possible that none of the others heard him.

            “Don’t mention it,” Trevelyan said, preoccupied.  Did Varric realize that the dragon was still out there?

            “I just want you to know that I won’t forget it,” said Varric, “Now let’s find a Tevinter and introduce him to Bianca.”

            Varric drifted off, making his way off to the side of the group and patting Bianca with a determined look in his eyes.

            Trevelyan smiled, he was looking forward to seeing this introduction.  Maybe after that they could introduce the dragon as well.  He tightened his grip on the daggers as they emerged into the open air.

 

* * *

 

            The dragon stalked toward them, moving like a cat approaching a mouse.  Clarel still moved underneath it, vainly trying to crawl away from it as it loomed over her.

            Trevelyan took a quick look behind him, the bridge broke off, dead ending over a canyon so deep he couldn’t see the bottom over the edge of the bridge.  Why was there a bridge to nowhere sticking out the back of this the keep?

            His attention turned back to the dragon and the sound of Clarel’s voice reached his ears.  She was chanting something, something that sounded familiar.

            The dragon lunged, but a bright light flashed up from Clarel, blasting the dragon in its chest and forcing Trevelyan to avert his eyes.  The dragon was thrown by the force of the blast and crashed down on the stone paving of the bridge, still rushing forward.  Trevelyan and the others dove to one side as the great best tumbled and clattered its way past them, claws scrabbling for purchase as it went until it slid over the edge of the bridge.

            For a brief moment, Trevelyan hoped that might be the end of the creature, picking himself up off the hard stone.  His hopes were dashed a moment later as he caught sight of outspread wings lifting it back into the air.  He reached back to take hold of one of his daggers when he realized that the dragon was no longer is biggest concern.

            The air was suddenly filled with a cracking sound and he could see pieces of the edge of the bridge begin to fall below the lip.  At first it merely seemed like an illusion, but gradually the realization dawned on him that the bridge they were standing on was actually beginning to fall apart.

            “Move!” he heard Iron Bull shout.

            He didn’t need any more motivation than that; he turned and ran as adrenaline pumped through his veins anew.  He could see the others ahead of him, he was the last one of the group, except…

            He glanced over his shoulder to see Alistair behind him; somehow the Warden had managed to be the rearmost of the group.  It was probably all the armor he was wearing, the rest of them had the sense to dress relatively lightly.  As he watched, he saw the ground under Alistair’s feet give way, and the Warden fell with a thud against the next piece of stone, his arms grabbing it and barely keeping him up and his lower body flailing off the far edge of it.

            Trevelyan froze.  He didn’t have any particular reason to risk his life to save the man; he barely knew him.  Still, Clarel was dead or about to be and who knew how many of the other senior Wardens were actually left.  If they were to be of any use to him, they would need leaders of their own.  He considered the two points for a moment, he couldn’t decide which was most important.  The man did have a nice, cynical sense of humor, though.

            Trevelyan skidded to a stop and reversed himself.  That thought process had only taken the barest fraction of a second and in just one more second afterward he was at Alistair’s side.  He wasted no time, gripping him by the back of his coat with one hand and under the shoulder with his other, he hauled the Warden back up onto the bridge.

            As he did so, he felt the stone under him start to give way and his legs began to churn again, but he was too late.  He fell to the hard surface as the bridge buckled beneath him, reaching out with his arms and scrabbling for solid ground that was just out of reach.  Ahead of him he could see Alistair and the others running before he slipped below the lip of the bridge and they were concealed from his sight.

            Everything now seemed to move in a sort of graceful, slow motion ballet.  The loose rocks and bridge segments around him spun and twirled in midair as if moving to an invisible choreography.  The ground below seemed to approach him both at a crawl and all too quickly and he reached out for anything that could save him, but there was nothing.

            Damn them all, they had just run on, leaving him to die.  He was powerful!  Maker, he was powerful!  But still not powerful enough to prevent his own death.  There was so much left to do, so much left undone.  The mark hadn’t even given him enough power to attain a single act of vengeance upon those who had done him wrong.

            The mark!  He reached out this time, not with his body, but through the mark.  The veil was weak here, and he could feel the fade close by.  It must have been the Warden’s doing, their ritual had left the veil here threadbare so that even the slightest of impulses could reveal it.

            He stretched out his hand below him and reached out through the mark.  The fade was there.  It was just like a rift, only not quite yet realized.  He reached into it, taking hold of it as he usually did, only instead of pushing he pulled.

            He pulled with all of his might and the fade burst forth in a massive rift.  Radiant white light edged with eerie green burst forth in front of him and he was forced to shield his eyes as he plunged into it.

 

* * *

 

            “What…” Trevelyan muttered as he picked himself up off the…  was this the ground?  He remembered falling…  Then falling up…  Then down again…  Where exactly was he?

            He glanced around at his surroundings, was he back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?  The ground was a hard, reflective black rock that was cracked and split.  Thick spires rose from it at seemingly random angles and the air was heavy with a sort of fog that wasn’t.

            Walking along the sides of one of the spires, looking just as confused as Trevelyan, was the Warden Alistair.  Had he ended up falling as well?

            “Warden,” Trevelyan called to him.  Alistair jumped at the sound.  The confused look he gave when he saw Trevelyan on what must have appeared to him to be the wall brought an amused grin to Trevelyan’s face.

            “Where are we?” Alistair asked.

            “I’m not sure,” came Hawke’s voice from above them.  Trevelyan winced internally at the sound, he would have to be here with them, wouldn’t he.  “I remember falling and then…”

            “The Fade,” said Solas, from behind him, “We were falling as the bridge collapsed and you opened a portal into the Fade.”

            Trevelyan looked down at the mark.  It was quiet now, just mild pulsing color, but he remembered reaching out and pulling the Fade.  Had he done what Solas said he had?  How?  He had gotten used to the process of closing rifts, but if he could open them as well…

            He clenched his fist to hide the mark from his sight, being able to open the Fade would be far more useful if he were mage.

            “The Fade?” Iron Bull said, notes of fear and confusion clear in his voice, “We’re in the damned Fade.”

            “Don’t panic big guy,” Varric said, “It could be worse.  We could have been dead after a fall like that.”

            “I think I might have preferred that,” Iron Bull growled, “We’re in the damned Fade now.  You know, the place where demons live.”

            “No one has entered the Fade physically since the magisters who started the first Blight,” Solas said, “It carries its dangers, but we cannot ignore the gravity of what we have just done.”

            “Momentous occasions or not, I still think it’s in our best interest to get out of here,” said Varric, “No one knows what happens to people who stay in the Fade for too long.”

            “He’s right,” Trevelyan said.  He flexed his hand and reached out through the mark.  He could feel nothing here, “But I can’t open a rift from here to the real world.”

            “You cannot?” Solas exclaimed, eyebrows raised in surprise, “We discover more about your abilities each day.  Perhaps it can only operate upon the Veil from our side.”

            “Whatever it does, it’s useless to us right now,” Trevelyan growled, “We need a rift.”

            “The rift that the Warden mages were opening was not far from here,” Hawke said, “It may be our only way out.”

            “Whoa, hold on there,” said Varric, “You saw the size of the demon that was waiting on the other side of that thing.”

            “We don’t have an option,” said Trevelyan, reluctantly agreeing with Hawke, “With luck, it hasn’t noticed us yet.  If we’re very lucky, we might get past it without that changing.”

 

* * *

 

            He hated the stinking fade.  It smelled old and musty and everything here looked just slightly off.  Not off like it was moldy or anything like that, off like it was just slightly tilted at an angle to reality.  It made him queasy in a way he had never felt before.

            He glared at Alistair’s back, it was the Warden’s fault; if he hadn’t turned back to help him he might have made it to safety before the bridge collapsed under him.  He turned his gaze to Hawke, if that fool hadn’t dragged them out here none of them would be in this situation.  Come to think of it, if he hadn’t screwed up so badly in Kirkwall, none of this would have happened at all.

            The temperature here was probably part of what was causing the queasiness, it was cool in here.  Cold, in fact, so cold that he expected to see his breath fog, but at the same time he felt as if he was burning up inside.  He hated this place more than he’d ever hated anything in his life.

            “You’re just a voice in my head,” Varric muttered, “You’re not even real.”

            “What are you talking about?” Trevelyan asked him.

            “You didn’t here that just now?” Varric asked, looking up in surprise.

            “Hear what?” Hawke replied.

            “Get out of my head!” Iron Bull barked, grabbing his head in his hands, “You won’t possess me you damned demon!”

            “Bull,” Trevelyan said, walking up cautiously and putting his hand on the Qunari’s arm, “What’s going on?”

            “It’s the Nightmare,” Solas said, “It’s aware of our presence now and it’s speaking to our fears.”

            “You can’t touch her,” Hawke growled, “and you can’t change what happened.”

            “Each of us in turn?” Trevelyan turned to Solas, “Why not speak to the whole group?  Solas?”

            Trevelyan looked at him quizzically, but he was far away.  “Banal nadas,” he said with quiet determination.

            “It speaks to each of us individually to target our deepest fears,” Alistair said, “I had a similar experience with a sloth demon during the blight.  It…”

            He trailed off and his eyes went distant as he listened to a voice that only he could hear.

            “That’s it?” he breathed at the end of it, snapping to, “Morrigan’s said worse to me than that.”

            Trevelyan looked around to see who might be next and he realized that he was the only one left.  He felt a sudden sinking feeling of dread and he nearly flinched when a deep, booming voice began to sound.

            “So this is the mighty Inquisitor, is it?  I had expected someone of stature, but instead I find before me one that I might mistake for a child.  You do not have enough power to protect yourself.  You never will.  I and my kind will always be nearby, and you will never be rid of us.”

            Trevelyan clenched his fists as he listened.  It was the Nightmare, a demon that feasted on his deepest fears.  The sound of it made him want to run, to hide, to crawl into a corner and cry until sleep claimed him.  It took every fiber of his being not to bury his head in his hands and scream.

            “Inquisitor, are you all right?” Solas’ voice faded into his consciousness, tearing him from the thoughts of the Nightmare like a sweet and cool like a spring breeze.  He came slowly back to himself and realized that he was standing rigid with his eyes wide and breathing hard through clenched teeth.

            He forced himself to relax, loosening his jaw, opening one hand, then the other.

            “It’s all right,” Varric said, “Whatever he said to you, it’s just words.  He can’t do any of it unless we let him.”

            Trevelyan nodded.  He forced his throat to relax and tried talking.

            “It was the divine, wasn’t it?” he said hoarsely, “She brought his attention to us.”

            “It was necessary,” said Solas, “It allowed you to recover your memories of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

            “Damned spirit,” he muttered, “She led him right to us.”

            Solas furrowed his brow, but made no comment.  Trevelyan glanced at him, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth and breathed a quick laugh.  The elf and his spirits.

            “Let’s keep moving,” said Hawke, “We have the Nightmare’s attention now, so I’d like to be gone from this place as soon as possible.”

            For once Trevelyan didn’t disagree with the man.

 

* * *

 

The path dead ended into a small enclosure with standing stones.

            “Another blasted dead end,” Iron Bull growled.  He was becoming more irritable the longer they remained here.  Trevelyan could relate.

            “What is this supposed to be?” Alistair asked, stepping into the enclosure, “It’s clearly made for some purpose.”

            “Does it matter?” Varric asked, “It’s not the way out.”

            “It’s an odd arrangement of stones,” Solas said, “I am curious as to what their purpose is.”

            “There’s writing on some of them,” Alistair said, squatting down in front of one.  He paused for a moment and read it, then his lips pursed and he stood up again.  “Never mind all that, nothing to see here.”

            “What is it?” Solas asked, “What did you see?”

            They all leapt over the wooden fence and knelt down to read some of the stones.  “Solas,” Trevelyan said, he was the first one to reach a stone, “Dying alone.”

            He glanced over at his elven companion, it was the first time he’d ever seen the man…  shocked?  No, not quite shocked, but as close to it as he would likely ever come.  His face was expressionless and his cheeks seemed to have lost some of their color.

            “Varric, becoming his parents,” Hawke read from another stone.

            Trevelyan looked over at Varric, he was also standing rigid, his face ashen.

            “Trevelyan,” Iron Bull began to read from another.

            “Don’t finish it,” Trevelyan snapped before he could continue, “Alistair was right, there’s nothing worth seeing here.”

            “Helplessness,” Hawke read quietly over Bull’s shoulder.

            Trevelyan froze in mid-step.  His hands balled into fists and his jaw clenched; he began to literally shake with rage.  That man.  Why had he survived the fall?  Why had Varric ever brought him to Skyhold?  Trevelyan swore that, one day, he would have his vengeance on the Champion of Kirkwall.

            “It is each of our worst fears,” Solas said gravely, “I agree with the Inquisitor, this place is best left behind as soon as we can.”

            The others filed out through the entrance of the enclosure.  Trevelyan waited until last, his glare fixed on Hawke.  His jaw and fists were loose now, but he still felt a boiling rage in the pit of his stomach at the sight of that man.

            Iron Bull was the last one and Trevelyan turned to follow him, but tripped on a stone that was well worn and had almost sunk into the ground.  Iron Bull turned around to assist him.

            “You all right boss?” he asked, grabbing onto Trevelyan’s elbow and helping him up.

            “I’m fine,” Trevelyan said absently.  His attention was taken by the stone he had tripped on.  It was worn farther down than the others, but it too had writing on it, as if someone had carved the new words in after the wear had occurred.

            _Iron Bull: Madness_

            Bull noticed where his eyes were fixed and glanced down himself.  Trevelyan looked back up at him, wondering what he would do; he hadn’t been doing too well since they entered the Fade.

            Finally, Bull drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly.  “Yeah,” he sighed as he breathed.

            “Come on Bull,” Trevelyan said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

* * *

 

            The Nightmare loomed up ahead of them, a giant spider with a thousand eyes and drooling fangs.  Why did it always have to be spiders?  Why couldn’t it have been something simple, like a goat?  Why couldn’t it ever just be a goat?

            The spirit had bought them some time, enough to defeat the aspect of the Nightmare that had materialized in front of them, but it looked like it wasn’t going to be quite enough.  The Nightmare was recovered now, and it still stood between them and their exit.

            “Any ideas on how we get past that thing?” Varric asked from behind him.

            “We need a distraction,” said Solas, “Something to draw it’s attention while we escape.”

            “I’ll do it,” said Alistair.

            All eyes turned to him.  He stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes wide and fixed on the great demon ahead.

            “Can you say that again?” said Varric, “I thought I heard you volunteer for a suicide mission.”

            “I said I’ll distract the Nightmare while the rest of you escape,” Alistair said, tightening his hand on the pommel of his sword.

            “Nope, no mistake there,” said Varric, shaking his head incredulously, “I did hear something crazy.”

            “Alistair, you can’t do this,” said Hawke, “The Wardens will need you in order to rebuild.”  Hawke hesitated a moment and Trevelyan cocked his head, what was going on now.  “I should do it.”

            “The Wardens started this,” Alistair responded before the words could sink in with the rest of them, “We started this and it’s up to us to stop it.”

            “Inquisitor,” Hawke turned to him, “You must help him see reason.  The Wardens have lost nearly all of their senior leadership, Alistair will be key to their rebuilding.”

            Trevelyan just stared for a moment as everything sank in.  When he caught up and returned to himself he noticed all eyes were on him.

            He kept his face calm, but he could feel the desire for a grin to start spreading.  Hawke wanted to trade his life for Alistair’s.  Trevelyan would receive a Warden who would magnify the strength of the order and have his revenge on the blasted Champion in one stroke.

            “Alistair,” he said, trying to keep his voice from registering its excitement, “Hawke is right.  The Wardens will need you in order to rebuild.  You cannot fight Corypheus directly, but by fighting elsewhere you can free up those who can.  And when another Blight occurs, we will need your order strong.”

            Alistair stood for a moment, his body tense and his face registering his internal struggles.

            “There’s no time to debate this,” Hawke said, “Go with the Inquisitor and get to the rift!”

            With that he took off running, a fireball already forming in his hand.  Alistair flinched after him, but stopped himself.  With what seemed like extreme effort, he turned to face Trevelyan.

            “Let’s go,” said Alistair, his voice hoarse, “We must make his sacrifice mean something.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Hawke attacked the Nightmare with all his power, flinging ice and thunderbolts at it as he leaped from rock to rock to avoid its spindly arms.  The others rushed for the tear in reality that led back to their own world.

            From the threshold, Alistair looked back at Hawke fighting against the great beast.  Iron Bull was the first to go through the rip in the air, then Solas.  Varric was next, with one final look back at his friend he stepped out into the real world.

            Alistair remained, staring at the scene.  It could have been him all those years ago.  The Hero sacrificed himself to kill the Archdemon, but he would have done it himself if he could.

His hand tightened on his sword when he felt the Inquisitor's hand on his shoulder.  He looked back at that stern, imposing face.

            "It's time to go," the Inquisitor said simply.

            "We can't just leave him," Alistair protested weakly.

            "He's sacrificing himself for the greater good, as is his destiny," the Inquisitor replied, his voice now low and full of danger, "You will not join him.  You, like the rest of the Wardens, are now mine."


End file.
